The palatial room is dominated by the ornate fireplace above which the clock ticks ponderously. The firelight flickers on chairs to both sides, which gather to absorb the warmth, while coffee tables with lamps roast between, the newspapers and magazines, brittle with the heat. The sofa shelters beyond the coffee tables and guards the table with its snowy cloth. Pictures coat the walls to right and left except where doors fill the centre space. Light from the window, far left, tries unsuccessfully to fool the room. The bureau and bookcases, being beyond the firelight, sulk in the gloom. In the chair to the right of the fireplace a face reflects the fire’s glow. The ageless face is calm and pensive. His hair sweeps snowily back from his temples above glittering eyes and a hawkish nose. The morning coat and pin striped trousers are of the best that Saville Row has ever provided. The elastic sided boots shine with sparks of reflected flame. The wing collar is smooth and neat below the mottled and scrawny neck that shows the tale of years that Sir Sidney Broadstreet has trodden this earth. Edwardian Society stepped aside when Sir Sidney passed and watched in awe and envy as he ascended the stairway to power and influence. A smile plays across the lips as he remembers the deeds that won his fortune. He has come a long way, has Sid Scroggins, since his childhood in Broad Street, in the little house next to the brewery. A snotty nosed little kid, with no boots to his feet, he has fought his way from that mean street to the pinnacles of power and all he has taken from Broad Street is the name. Eventually he has come to own the brewery, in fact he owns the street and has made sure that the hovel of his birth now lies beneath the expansion of his brewing business. He is satisfied with the price paid. It has been worth it, worth every penny. The door to the right opens and a man enters. He is quite tall but stoops with tiredness and runs his hand through his unkempt brown hair. It is clear that he has been disturbed from sleep. Red tartan slippers shuffle into the room. The figure is wearing pale blue pyjamas with dark blue collar and cuffs. He is dishevelled. His face, which shows a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity, now begins to show uncertainty and a little fear as he shuffles toward the fire. He does not remember there ever having been a fire lit in this room. He stops as he notices the figure sitting in the chair. As the clock slowly ticks, the man’s look flicks from the figure in the chair to a portrait on the wall to the left of the fireplace and back. Several times the head turns from the figure to the painting, from the painting to the figure. The man in the armchair watches in silence. “Grandfather?” It is a statement of fact, for the image in the painting and the man in the chair is clearly one and the same. Yet it is a question for he knows that his grandfather is thirty years dead. “Sidney.” The figure replies, “My namesake Sidney. What on earth possessed your father to name you after me I do not know? You do not look like me, you do not think like me. What a pitiful specimen of manhood you are Sidney.” “I’m dreaming,” says Sidney with his mouth open. “Typical! Face him with something out of the ordinary and he immediately denies its possibility. “You’re dead.” “What a marvel the boy is. Such perspicacity.” The old man leaps agilely to his feet and thrusts his face into that of the younger man. “Do you want to touch, ‘doubting Thomas’, I hope not? I certainly don’t want to be pawed by a nothing like you. Go and get yourself a drink to steady your nerve, there’s a good malt on the bureau.” Young Sidney staggers to the bureau and pours a stiff drink, gulping it and coughing as the liquor sears his throat. “Waste of a good malt, feeding it to you. A man should appreciate fine wine and good whisky if he is worth anything.” “This can’t be happening, I must be dreaming.” Young Sidney mutters under his breath and takes a more controlled sip of the whisky. “Well, what are we going to do with you, boy? What use are you?” The ‘boy’ Sidney, bolstered by alcohol, begins to be affronted. It is many years since any man has called him ‘boy’ and never in that particular tone. Indeed, he had, for the adult portion of his thirty-nine years, been used to be spoken of, and to, respectfully. He is the head of an organisation which, though no longer quite the force it once was in his father’s day, nevertheless, is a large and powerful commercial group. “Now see here, Grandfather, there’s no call to talk like that. I am a man of note don’t you know, a person well respected by his peers.” “You are a nincompoop. No do not get on your high horse, come here and sit down. Let me tell you a few home truths.” The older Sidney gestures to the chair and the younger sinks into its hot leather depths, nursing his whisky and his pride but wilting under his grandfather’s will. “You say that you are a man of note, well, that note is way off key sir. You are respected by your peers. I suppose you mean by Richard Simmons who was heard only last week to say that you were not the man your father was. And you must also mean Windyatt who agreed and added that your father was not the man his father was, meaning, of course, me. He also added that he gave Broadstreet International three years at the most. Three years, Sidney, and that will be the end of all that I spent my life building. I will not have it Sidney. I will not have it.” “You can’t have it Grandfather you’re dead and I’m alive, even though at the moment, I’m dreaming. Broadstreet is safe with me. There have been one or two problems recently but we’re working through them, and those people you speak of are my friends and associates. They are helping me and I don’t believe a word you say about them.” Sidney attempts to rise from the chair to emphasise his point but his grandfather thrusts him back and looms over him threateningly. “The fact that I am dead gives me certain advantages that you lack boy, living as you say you are. I assure you they are not your ‘friends’. They are in concert with our American competitors and the group is being fed to the wolves. Sidney Broastreet may be dead but he is certainly not going to let Broadstreet International die. That is why I must act now, tonight!” “What do you want me to do?” Young Sidney could not fail to be moved by his grandfather’s impassioned speech. “Would you give your life and soul for Broadstreet?” his grandfather cries leaning closer, his eager face almost touching his grandson’s, the firelight livid on his features. “You know I would Grandfather.” “I knew you would. I did.” He springs upright and grasps the mantle, staring up at the clock and bathing in the heat of the flames. “Bring me the letter.” “What letter?” cries Sidney, mystified. “It is on the bureau next to the decanter.” “I assure you, Grandfather, there is no letter there. I would have seen it when I poured...” He reaches the bureau and halts. A large manila envelope lies beside the decanter. Several spots of whisky have dripped upon it when he poured his drink yet he knew that it had not been there when he had reached for the decanter. He lifts it gingerly and reads the words on it. “Sidney Broadstreet. It’s addressed to me.” “No, boy, it was addressed to me but the name is the same. Do you acknowledge it yours?” Sidney nods. “Bring it here and you may open it for it concerns you intimately.” Young Sidney carries the letter and stands near his grandfather, as near as he feels comfortable as the flames seem to be growing hotter and the light more intense. He draws the single sheet of heavy paper from the envelope. “It is an agreement that I made years ago when I was younger than you are now. Though I signed it so many years ago it is still binding and concerns Broadstreet and you.” Sidney reads the paper slowly and, even though his face is reddened by the blazing fire it is still possible to see the blood drain from it. He sinks into the leather chair and stares at his grandfather in disbelief. “You sold your soul. You sold your soul to Satan for power and wealth.” “Even for me, the rise from the gutters of Broad Street to International business power was something ‘superhuman’. I needed superhuman help.” The old man shrugs his shoulders. ‘ “You sold your soul.” Sidney repeats woodenly. “Yours too, actually,” the old man adds, “If you read the bottom bit about heirs and descendants you’ll see the relevant clause.” “You can’t do that!” Sidney shouts, his face regaining the colour it had lost. “No man can will his descendants’ lives. No court on earth would stand for it.” “That is just what your father said. We are not talking of earthly courts here Sidney. Your father did not understand either, but it is all very clear. I had fifty years of infernal help to make my business and my power grow, then Satan, the Devil or whatever you want to call him, got my soul. In that time, I also agreed to collect as many souls as I could manage to ‘swell the ranks’, as it were. Since I did rather well at that, the next part of the agreement came into force. I could return to Earth in the body of my mature son to take the reins of power again. I would not be reborn, only God has that power, but I would be allowed to possess the body of my son, Sidney, and continue the great work.” The look of pleasure on the old man’s face, as it is lit by the fire, causes Sidney to worm further into the depths of the armchair as if he would burrow through it to escape. “You killed my father!” “Possessed is the word but to all intents, he died. You might say that his soul went to Hell and I took his body to, Paris, I think it was; A very successful meeting; I nearly doubled the group’s holdings at a single swoop.” “And now...” “And now it is your turn, Sidney, and high time, too. You really have been letting Broadstreet go and I cannot let it continue a moment longer.” “No!” Sidney draws up his feet as if he can disappear into the chair and hide from what is to come.
“That is What your father said in that very chair, but it did him no good either.” The glare from the fire is now so strong that Sir Sidney Broadstreet is silhouetted against it. He is the only dark point in the room as flames begin to lick up the walls. “It is, perhaps unfortunately, that you haven’t seen fit to marry and provide an heir, Sidney. But your body is young yet and I am sure we can work something out. We have to look to the future, do we not? Well, I have to, anyway. You do not have a future.” The magazines and papers burst into flame and the bulbs in the lamps pop, shooting out shards of glass that glitter as they fly. The woodwork cracks and whines in the inferno. The oil paintings run in larval drops then the colours merge into red and crimson. Even as the roar reaches its height, the screams of Sidney Broadstreet mingle with the demonic laughter of Sidney Broadstreet and become one unearthly sound. The palatial room is dominated by the ornate fireplace above which the clock ticks ponderously. No firelight flickers on chairs to both sides. A single piece of charred paper lies in the fireplace. The only part of it which can be read is the signature, Sidney Broadstreet. The writing is rather faded but can still be clearly made out. It is dark brown in colour, not the usual ink for a legal document. Most probably it was signed in blood.
